Your World
by YukiSkye
Summary: What do you see when you gaze into a world so different from yours? What do they see in turn? KakaIru
1. Blank

Inspired by Ib.

* * *

><p>Aah, he could see him again, the solitary man of the one who stands across from him.<p>

He is indifference and death encased in the screaming winds of a blistering gray snowstorm that toss fine hair like silvery threads of moonlight in wild abandon and throwing a dark cloak into swirls and folds of black like a yawning abyss around him. The missing emptiness extends in a mask to cover half a face in its unknown depths for apathy has no identity. It is stark against the porcelain white of pale skin above it where eyes cool as winter gaze frostily beyond the plane of existence, one the gray of a tempest across stormy seas and the other a bone-chilling, arresting shade of deep, blood _red_, the only drop of color in the desolate landscape like a splatter of shuddered awakenings.

Pale, slender hands grip a single sword which cut across the gaping hollow hole in front of him at a sharp angle like a streak of lightning across thunderous skies, a flashing white of biting nonchalance in his hold. His stance was straight and precise, his body an unbending line against the arcs of the gale surrounding him.

He stands alone, always alone, in a silent world of blank white and gray and black, the shades melding and clashing all at once like the buffet of wind against snow but that was precisely what makes him so beautiful.

He was indifference but he is also defiance. His world may be colorless but he is far from the same.

_Palette_ wants to touch him, the one who stands so easily in those blizzards. He wants to feel that smooth cold stinging his fingertips, to breathe the scent of winds and allow it to dry his throat, to hear a voice whisper around his ears as he feels him breathe and to know what it means to live in blankness.

What world can he create, what world does he see, this Nameless being in a canvas of nothing?

He throws flowers to him through his window when it turns dark outside and nobody comes, all of them a swollen carmine and crimson and cardinal. He didn't wish to taint that purity in anything else but the color that was given to Blank.

They sail in a drop of red through the air between them but they always scatter halfway, petals dissolving until nothing but a sighing thought is left at Blank's window.

Still he continues as though he were giving away his heart and in a way, he is; pieces of him that melt like spring snow before his feelings could take root on the other side.

Aah, they cannot reach.

He presses his hand against his window and sighs tears, staring at the eternity immortalized across him just a stone's throw away but the distance is more than he can ever imagine.

He wants to go there.

His soul aches even though he doesn't have one. The pain is still real enough that his own world melts and runs through the edges, oozing down in a disgusting mud of half-blended colors.

He cries and tosses the rose.

A hand catches it midair and he gasps.

Blank peers at him with unfathomable eyes, his right hand grips the unadorned black frame of his window and his body leans out, the bloom held delicately between long fingers.

How…?

Glinting gray and bright scarlet don't look away as he brings the rose to his nose, taking a deep breath and _Palette_ feels as though his own breath is sucked away with it.

He lowers the rose to his lips and slowly melds back into his window.

They hold each other's gaze as _Palette_ watches him go, watches the way Blank realigns into his unyielding lines and harsh angles but for the petals of red blossoming over his heart and the streaks running from a ruby eye.

Blank is indifference incarnate but he is also defiance and solitary strength, he who fights alone the clash between what is demanded of him outside and what he is inside.

It hurt him.

But _Palette_ has given him a way to bleed over it, to validate that pain.

He isn't just indifference. He is human conflict.

_Palette_ loves him.

* * *

><p>AN: To clear things up in case anyone's having trouble following, Palette is the name given to Iruka, who is a painting, by the artist who painted him. He hangs on the opposite wall of Kakashi, who has no name.


	2. Palette

He is a burst of colors and things of all sorts, a flurry of vivid experiences that surround him in a whirlwind of verve's rhythm.

He is the autumn leaf and sunset orange of farewells that smudge into the ocean azures and blue skies of clarity that rise into the verdant depths of forests deeper within which is the violet of quiet mystery tumbling into nostalgic reds of ripe apples and strawberries and cherries and gentle ladybugs tapering into a bliss of bright yellow daffodils, marigolds, buttercups, and flying canaries.

In the middle of it is one whose color is the entirety of everything put together in a breathtaking mix of brown of different shades.

_Palette _is many, many things all at once and yet he remains unique still. The color of experiences around him adds to him but never overtakes, underlines but gently the one who arises from a careful combination of all different _things_ and tastes in life_._

The blooms _Palette _throws he knows of but the ice and cold chains his arms, his legs, his body and locks them unyieldingly in place and he watches as each one vanishes like a wisp of mist before a breeze but he can feel that the sentiment is there. He imagines if he touches the exact spot they dissolve into air that it will feel warm.

He wants to reach.

But he cannot move because he is lifeless.

He is empty.

He has nothing.

He is nothing.

He knows because he has never been Named and that is the point. That is his essence or rather, the empty hole he is missing.

The life begins to run from _Palette_'s gilded frame, a murky brown of despondent despair that comes straight from his heart. It trickles from underneath, dying the white wall in dribbles of misery.

He wants to immerse himself in it, to know even that small part of _Palette_'s world.

Red streaks across the air like a butterfly and he catches it, looking into the startled twin orbs of beautifully emotive browns that turn all different shades in surprise and then wonder and then captivation.

He feels the warmth radiating from the piece of _Palette_'s heart held oh-so delicately between his fingers like the treasure it is.

He continues watching those pools of liquid emotion as he breathes in the scent of courage and admiration and _love, _love enough to make him feel heady.

He brings it to his lips in a soft kiss but draws those eyes, the gaze he wants to capture forever as he slowly melts back into his own window.

He returns his stance and the red bursts through his chest and runs through his veins until he can feels his body bursting with it and he cries because there is so much in his gift that it floods the empty crevices of pain and overflows.

The warmth pulsates through him and it must be what a heartbeat feels like. It feels full. It feels like relief. It is freedom.

Finally he is complete.

_Palette _is more than the colors of life.

_Palette_ is his other half.


End file.
